It's a Start
by ember53608
Summary: Reality can't be what it is without cause, as it's the effect. In the same sense, no relationship or understanding between two people can be what it is without a start. But, with this couple, there isn't just one start; there's over a thousand. Spitfire.
1. Visits

1 - Visits

It's been three hours, forty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds now; the threesome has been waiting, each in their own way, for any official to push open the bland, white door. Waiting, they've been, to hear the words which will instantly put their mind at ease.

First, there is the ginger, bits of dirt scattered about his red hair, trails of blood dripping down various parts of his body. As per the situation, he ignores the mild injuries, instead busying himself in repeatedly tapping his foot, which also happens to have suffered a merciless beating. Every few seconds, he silently curses himself as the pain randomly becomes apparent. His only consolation is the smooth, cool tracker pressed into his palm. It is small, and yet, at the same time, its significance is inexplicably colossal.

A raven haired couple is seated in rough, plastic chairs. Though both of their eyes are blue, only one set is visible, as the other is covered with a slightly torn mask. The girl, her navy suit dirtied and musty, leans her head on the boy's shoulder, closing her eyes. He peers at over at her wearied yet persistent figure, lips drawn into a thin line. He doesn't think her confidence will last much longer. But, evidently, he is wrong, for his confidence will wear thin quite a while before hers, dissipating into the very air.

As if predicted, yet another couple intrudes upon the threesome's atmosphere, their auras differing from each other's. The red head is brutally injured in multiple places, his hands bloodied from repeatedly attempting to halt the bleeding. In a seemingly ignorant matter, the oriental does not reach for the superfluous fabric of her outfit. Instead, she sighs deeply and leans forward, pressing her forehead against his back. Somehow, his right hand finds its way to her own, his fingers slipping past the thin openings.

And so remain the youths, who would never have expected their many years of experience to have meant nothing in a situation such as this. There is no lecture, no exercise, and no mission which would have prepared them. For in truth, there exists not a thing within the world which would have prepared them for reality. Because, as they have just learned, reality is the deadliest of weapons, as it does not tear you apart once, or twice, but as many times as needed.

The crowd has long dispersed, each of the individuals going about their business and intending upon reinstating their normal lives. Many have decided that the time and the place are not appropriate, and so, for just the few hours, the society of usually active martyrs is dormant. With the exception of one man, of course, who we all know quite well does not stop at a thing to carry out his lifelong mission of justice.

The crowd has long dispersed, leaving only one young man standing before the presentable gravestone. His ruffled hair is damp and hangs loosely in front of his grass green eyes; it has been raining since early this morning. Hands clench and unclench themselves as he quietly, gradually crushes the tracker. Through the gaps in his right fist, bulky chunks and miniscule bits of metal fall to the ground. Within seconds, any trace of the circular item has long since left his hand.

Thinking he is satisfied, despite the fact that he is most certainly not, the ginger turns away from the concrete slab, and walks away. Seemingly confident, he further falsifies himself by holding up his head and picking up his feet. Never does he look down towards the critter infested grass, and never does he let his weighty feet drag behind him. He instills within himself a silent assertion, though deep inside, his self esteem has almost completely withered.

But almost is almost and whole is whole. The ember tinted gladiolus that is his very self esteem has withered, yes, but there is life left in it yet. Its petals droop helplessly, curling in on themselves as they brown. Small, yet significant splits can be seen marring their surface, which was once as soft as an angel's wings. However, when the light that is persistence does not seem to hold its smolder, hope and courage filter through that flower's hardened heart, lighting its inconspicuous flame ablaze.

Every year, he comes back to the very grave stone, a bouquet of delphiniums in hand. Gently, he lays them down on the surface of the cool, gritty stone, their petals wet with the morning dew. For a while, he stands there motionlessly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Eventually, he begins to talk, relaying the events of the past few months to her. And as he goes on with his endless tales of heroism, she listens, an affectionate, invisible smile played across her face. Though he doesn't know it, the corners of that smile never tilt downward.

When her older sister finally decides to come one day and instead ends up crumpled on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, the look on her face does not change. Irked, she watches as the redhead, who is assumedly married to her sister, bends down and whispers gently to her. His face is a picture of strain, anxiety, and comfort painted into one, she realizes. He is trying hard, so very hard to put the broken shards back together, and she is glad.

When the original team of seven sits comfortably upon the ground surrounding her grave, she has to admit that she is surprised. But still, the seraphic look on her face does not waver, and she watches. Not one of them is the same as before, though in each of them, she knows, there is one little thing which has not changed. She knows, because, as she watches them converse within themselves, she picks out the bits and pieces of speech which sound familiar.

And, finally, when the slender Korean reporter begins to accompany him in his yearly visits, she does not complain. Again, she watches, the obvious things pricking at her fragile heart. This woman, in all of her attitude and vigor, is what she has been waiting for to happen. For, as hard as it is to confess, the reporter has effortlessly managed to bring about that light of persistence within him again.

A sparkling tear trails its way down her tan face, embedding itself within her golden locks. Throwing her head up to the sky, she laughs, a truly beautiful sound, ringing about the damp air. One by one, the rain drops plop onto her face, mingling with her tears. The little waterfalls follow a curved path, dripping past the barely visible gaps in her lips. For a moment, the newly sprouted couple breaks their conversation, gazing at the atmosphere about the stone.

At last noticing them, she lowers her head, the smile never having left her face. Slowly, and a little clumsily, she walks up to the closer of the two, the ginger. Bringing her arms gently about his neck, she pulls him close to her, just for the second. Then, once she's pulled away, she makes for the woman and once situated directly adjacent to her, she whispers, "Take care of him."

And just like that, she is gone, her scent having dispersed within the atmosphere. The ginger stays still a while, thinking. Then, almost out of nowhere, he tells his partner that it's time to leave. The essence of the whispered words still hasn't left her, so she hesitates for a while. But soon, they, too, are gone, having returned to the normal sequence of their lives. And, once they sit down and think about it, they realize, it isn't much, but, it's a start.

And she knows it, too.

**Before I go, just let me tell you one thing. There _will_ be spoilers; however, my writing is vague enough to where you can't really tell if something is a spoiler or purely made up. So for those of you who are completely against spoilers, don't worry. Though, I can't help but say... I'VE SEEN ALL THE WAY THROUGH TWENTY FIVE AND TWENTY SIX COMES ON MONDAY! SQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEE! **

**'Kay, I think I'm good now. Now, don't forget to press that REVIEW BUTTON. Constructive criticism is highly encouraged, as I can most definitely take the heat. So come at me with all that you've got, and see you next week!**


	2. Orange

**Okay, so here's Chapter Two of my spitfire fanfic, "It's a Start". Just like the last one, it does require a bit of delving and interpretation, as I'm- Wait, I can't say that; not until after the end, that is. What I can say, though, is that this chapter was partially inspired by the song: "Orange" by Rie Kugimiya; the second ending of "Toradora!", the anime. I absolutely loved the lyrics and the perception to this song, as it really reminded me of Wally and Artemis! To see the lyrics, go to this video: "Toradora - Orange[Lyrics] Japanese + English" posted by _4EverAnimeFanGirl_. If you read a recent comment on that video, left by _theonewhocomments_, it perfectly explains the meaning of the song. NOW, GO READ. **

**_Disclaimer: No, I don't own Young Justice, or Rie Kugimiya and her song. If I did, my life would be almost complete, by like 97.8%, I think._ **

2 - Orange

Just because she feels like it, Artemis Crock has decided to buy a bag of oranges, as they're at their cheapest. She would usually go for the mandarins, but today, she thinks, is a day to buy oranges. And so, with a quaint smile, she plops seven or eight of said citrus fruits into a plastic bag, then placing it within her grocery cart.

As she goes about collecting the rest of the items on the list given to her by her mother, she ponders to herself. Oranges are fruits she has never really enjoyed, as their pronounced, sour taste has always brought about the childish look of pinched eyes and crooked frown on her face. Mandarins, though they are also sour, have a taste not so powerful, but more hidden.

However, in the past few months, she realizes, subtlety has not been something she much tends to lean towards. Instead, it is prominence and animation within her life which she has longed for. Of course, there is the lively role of the tenacious archer "Artemis" she plays every so often, but when at home, her life is much more comparable to an everlasting depression story.

And so, though upon looking at the idea it seems absurd, she has decided to bring back some of the punch in her life using, yes, an orange.

_I_, she thinks, _have finally gone insane. _

She's in the kitchen now, opening cupboards and doors so as to put away the groceries she's just bought. Among the items are milk, eggs, cheese, butter, etc: the things any other person would buy. Within a few minutes, all is put away, with the exception of one bag. Of course, this bag just so happens to be the one holding the seven or eight oranges she bought.

Rolling them out of the bag and onto the counter, she looks at them for a while, thinking of which one to cut first. Taking any random one, she tosses it up in the air, feeling it's slightly rough surface make contact with her tan skin. She likes the feel of that roughness and all of the miniscule, irregular bumps dotted across the orange's surface. To her, it's almost as if the fruit itself isn't perfect, but average enough for a person to enjoy it.

Taking a serrated knife from a drawer to her left, she places the orange on her cutting board and sets to slicing it. The first cut is clean, with just a few drops of juice squirting onto the surface of the knife. Though she's tempted, she lets the utensil be, instead slicing into the halves she's already made. Soon enough, the halves becomes large quarters, which in turn become nicely sized eighths.

With ease and relaxation, she sets to cutting a few more of the oranges, forcefully ignoring the random drops sprayed onto the knife. By the time she's finished, thirty two slices of soft, bite sized orange are clustered together on a plate. Peering out the kitchen, she notices that her mother is still in the middle of taking a shower. A childish smile played across her face, she takes one of the darker slices and slips it past her lips, crushing it with her teeth.

Immediately, an overly sour taste embraces her taste buds, and she squeezes her eyes shut. But, after a split second, her mystical, brown eyes open wide in surprise. This sour taste, she realizes, isn't something she seems to mind anymore. This sour taste, she realizes, is something she has endured for too long to make a bother of anymore. This sour taste, she realizes, reminds her so very much of him.

Smiling a little sadly, she reaches for another slice and plops it into her mouth with as much gusto possible. Again, the sour taste erupts within her mouth, a river of fresh orange juice flowing down her esophagus. However, this time, she doesn't close her eyes or don the expected frown, but grin naively and hum to herself in bliss. Slice after slice bursts on her tongue, bringing about an at last pleasurable feeling to her taste buds.

Within minutes, she has completely finished all of the oranges, leaving absolutely none for her mother. Feeling a little guilty, she steps aside and makes for the sink, where a reasonable amount of dirty dishes sit patiently. Reaching for the faucet's handle, she begins to wash the dishes, savoring the slightly evident taste of citrus within her mouth. Maybe doing the dishes will make up for her mother's supposed part once visible on the plate.

It does.

"Artemis, B-07. Recognized," resonates the electronic sound of the cave's computer. Sighing at the fact that no person can enter without being announced to the whole world, she makes her way for the kitchen. In about half an hour, she will have to suit up for a mission in Finland, and she most certainly isn't going on an empty stomach.

Quite expectedly, a redhead stands at the island, slicing some apples, bananas, pears, strawberries, peaches, and oranges into a bowl. Not noticing her entrance, he continues to hum a little tune he heard on the radio. It's country, she thinks, though she can't be sure. Taking a quick breath, she steps forward, lingering just over his shoulder. To her pleasure, he flinches quite evidently.

"Hey, Artemis…" he says, his eyes going back and forth from the fruit he's slicing to her observant face. A serrated knife technically being a dangerous thing, he's decided not to use his super speed in carrying out this task. Hence, over the course of about ten minutes, he's only finished slicing the apples, bananas, and pears.

"Baywatch," she greets, and a little tersely, if she's right. Shaking off the thought, she continues, "What're you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Like you're slicing fruit into a bowl," she replies, as smoothly and innocently as possible.

"Haha, funny." He smiles for just the split second, quickly letting it fade away, as if it were never there. Shrugging lightly to herself, she turns to the fridge on her right. Her eyes scour the contents of the different shelves and drawers. Within minutes, she's ripped off the cover of a chocolate flavored pudding cup. All she needs is a spoon, which she fishes around for in one of the kitchen drawers.

Practically like some sort of starving animal, he notices, she digs into the pudding, licking the spoon clean exaggeratingly slow. She knows he would much rather prefer one of these delectable desserts to a healthy fruit salad, and so to her best ability, she is trying to tempt him. But, to her surprise, all he does is roll his emerald colored eyes and smile.

For the next fifteen minutes, all they do is it, indulged within their world. Every so often, they sneak glances at each other; though they're not completely aware of it, they much enjoy these split second looks. But, what with the situation of them being an overly snarky and argumentative pair, their ability to recognize this is inexistent.

Just as he's started slicing the oranges into eighths, she brushes lightly past him, making her way to the trash bin in the far corner of the kitchen. Once she's thrown the empty, plastic cup away, she expectedly strays back to his side, observing with a satisfied smirk on her face. A little hesitantly, he continues to slice the oranges, noting after a few seconds that she's not bound to leave.

Quietly, the second to last slice of orange plops into the bowl, slightly shifting the positions of the other fruit. Gently rubbing the last, rounded slice between his fingers, he decides that there's enough in the bowl to save one. Setting it on the cutting board, he takes the serrated knife and runs his finger along it, pushing any remnants of fruit into the bowl. Satisfied, he grabs a salt and pepper shaker, sprinkling its contents onto the fruit.

Only a little jaded, she remains standing, thinking that she'll watch his gluttonous self at work. It takes a while, but after he's mixed the salad, washed the knife and cutting board, and taken out a spoon, she readies herself for disgust. It surprises her, though, when he turns to her and instead offers a slice of orange.

Taking it a little too casually, she pops it into her mouth, patiently waiting for the sour taste to blossom. Only, the sour taste she's known and expected for quite some time never comes. Instead, a cool, sugary taste replaces it, surprising her to no end. Slowly, she embraces the new, enjoyable flavor, letting the spurting juice slosh around in her mouth for a while.

"It's sweet," she says through the squashy citrus fruit.

"Yeah. It's like a miracle from God or something."

"You don't like sour ones?"

"Nah, I like 'em nice and sweet."

"Heh, funny," she murmurs to herself, smiling softly. He looks back at her, salad stuffed into his mouth, not having heard her last statement clearly. "Hm?"

"Nothing," she replies, heading once again for the fridge. Only this time, it's not a pudding cup she's looking for, but oranges. Reaching into the red net bag, she pulls out a sizeable one, turning it this way and that. Nodding to herself, she takes the earlier cutting board and serrated knife, immediately beginning to slice the orange.

The first slice pushes gently past her lips, her powerful teeth crushing it with an expectant willpower. Instantly, the only recently familiar taste of sweet citrus fruit bursts on her tongue. Once again, her brown pupils widen in surprise as the fresh juice of the fruit trickles down her throat. This taste, she realizes, is something she very much prefers over the sour taste of her own oranges.

This taste, she realizes, is youthful, fresh, breathtaking… and endlessly desired all at the same time.

It's a start.

**For those who absolutely cannot understand this, read this next sentence repeatedly, and you might understand. I, technically Artemis, was comparing Wally to an orange. Now, think about that. Think about how at first she somewhat despises yet enjoys the sour oranges, and then how she finds that she prefers and much desires the sweet ones. Think about it... If you still don't understand, then I'm sorry and really can't do much more, other than tempt you to PRESS THE REVIEW BUTTON. Because, as odd as it might seem, I need the feedback of both the people who understood and the people who didn't. So please, PRESS THE REVIEW BUTTON and start typing a review, as detailed and lengthy as possible. If I don't get at least five reviews, I swear I just might quit. JUST MIGHT. Toodles! **


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